


On The Fence

by alchemystique



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:19:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/pseuds/alchemystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma has just moved to Storybrooke, and it's not until the first snow that she realizes she is completely unprepared for owning a freaking home. Thankfully for her, she's got a helpful neighbor to help her out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Fence

**Author's Note:**

> I have a serious fixation on Henry the matchmaker. Also it snowed a lot here this week and this is what happens in awful weather. I write silly fic.

_"Neighbors, I’m on the fence about them." - Jarod Kintz_

At the first sign of snow at the house, Emma realizes she doesn’t own a snow shovel. It’s a horrifying realization, and she panics, thumbing through her HOA documents on the hope that the outrageous fees included sidewalk cleaning services, but of course they don’t.

Instead in tiny, miniscule print on the second to last page, there is a very clear warning that anyone who does _not_ clear their sidewalks of snow will be met with fines from the HOA. Unspecified fines, with no clear time frame for this mandatory shoveling, and _Jesus_ Emma was an idiot for moving to bumfuck-nowhere into a _house_ , of all things.

But she’d started to worry about Henry - his behavior, and his creepy, rude friends, and so she’d researched for weeks to find a good school and a small, away from the city town, and when she’d seen the opening for deputies in middle-of-nowhere Maine, she’d pretty much jumped in the moving van right then and there.

Still. Emma can’t imagine how she thought she could _own a house._ She can’t even remember she needs to own a snow shovel.

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday night, and there’s nothing in this whole town open past eight except the shady bar _The Rabbit Hole_ and the diner/B&B _Granny’s_ (she’s seen a lot of truckers going in and out of both, but no way in hell is she going in there all damsel in distress, begging for a snow shovel, because at thirty-one years old she still can’t adult.

Instead Emma stares forlornly at the blankets of heavy snow drifting from the sky and promises herself that first thing in the morning she will go to the hardware store and buy herself a freaking snow shovel.  
  
———

She wakes to Henry bounding through her bedroom door, his eyes wide and his face bright, his voice far too loud for the barely-above-the-horizon slice of sunlight peeking through her curtains.

"It snowed!!" he says, like he’s never before seen snow in his life, and she realizes belatedly that he’s already in jacket and gloves, a scarf wound around his neck and a floppy hat hiding most of his hair. 

Emma groans.

"Mom! Mooo _ooom_! I’m gonna make a fort! And build a snowman! Oh! And do you think Jimmy can come over for a snowball fight? And hot chocolate after! Mom!”

"Henry, slow _down_.”

"No way - it _snowed_.”

She regards her son as she levers herself up to sitting, trying to fight a fond smile, because yes, Henry has seen plenty of snow in his life, but he’d never had his own yard to play in, and suddenly she remembers why she’d gone insane and bought the stupid house in the first place.

Henry is halfway through detailing the number of turrets necessary for a proper snow fort when Emma remembers the shovel, and practically shoves her son out into the backyard as she scrambles to dress herself.

Twenty minutes later, her son is still babbling about the snow as he leads her out the front door, and it takes her a moment after she’s locked up and started towards her car to completely take in the scene before her.

There is a man brushing snow off her car.

Or, more precisely, there had been, two seconds ago, before he caught sight of the two of them leaving the house, and now he’s looking a bit caught out, eyeing them with at least a small measure of guilt.

"Woah, cool! Mom, look, you don’t even have to clean off your car here! This place is awesome!" (On the one hand, she’s glad that after the tantrums Henry had thrown about the news of the move, he’s finally warming up to Storybrooke. On the other…there is a strange man cleaning off her car at six in the morning on a Sunday.)

It’s only then that she realizes her sidewalk has been cleared already, and most of her driveway as well. She takes a good long look at this good Samaritan stranger.

And then wishes she hadn’t. Shit. He’s way too attractive to be legal.

It’s maybe twenty degrees out, and the sun is just starting to crest over the tops of roofs, and the man is in jeans and a thermal Henley with nothing but a buffalo plaid hanging loose over top - she can see chest hair peeking out from the top of the unbuttoned Henley, and the only apparent concessions to the cold are a pair of gloves and a beanie pulled low over his forehead. As she watches him, he reaches up to scratch guiltily behind his ear.

"Morning, neighbor," he says, and Emma wants to glare at him when she realizes she can detect a hint of an accent. Mother fuck. How is that fair?

"Uh…hi," she says, all eloquence this early in the morning, and she notes that the apples of his cheeks have turned an adorable pink.

"I’m just around the corner and…well I wasn’t sure you’d seen the small print on those bloody HOA’s, so I thought…you’re quite new the neighborhood and I thought I’d spare you the horrific fines. And a visit from Regina."

Ugh. Regina. Head of like, everything in town except, shockingly, the mayor position, and if Emma had to peg Head Bitch in town, Regina would be it. Not that she actually dislikes the woman, it’s just…she definitely would prefer not to be on her bad side.

"Right. HOA’s." His face is going red now, and it’s kind of adorable, honestly, all that rosy-red flesh peeking out from behind a glorious line of stubble, hiding a no doubt diamond-sharp jawline. She doesn’t mention the fact that not a single one of her neighbors has bothered to get out to shovel yet, lines and lines of pristine snow blanketing the entire street except where he’s cleared a path for her. "Well…thanks, I guess."

She waits for him to move, to say something, but he’s watching her face very carefully, studying her features, and if she were a vain woman she’d think he was checking her out, but more than likely he was waiting to see whether or not she planned to chase him off her property.

"Killian," he finally says, his hand dropping from his neck towards her, and she takes a few steps forward to shake it. "Killian Jones."

His handshake is firm and businesslike, and Emma instantly likes him a little better for not attempting to noodle-arm her. She startles a bit at the realization of how very _blue_ his eyes are, with the glare coming off the snow, and doesn’t realize she’s been staring until Henry clears his throat awkwardly beside her. “I’m _Henry_ ,” he says with a rather pointed look in her direction, and Emma drops Killian Jones’ hand like it’s on fire. “And this is Emma. She’s my mom.” There’s something accusatory in the way he says it, his eyes narrowing on Jones, but the man grins and extends the same handshake to Henry, who looks slightly less suspicious after that. 

"It’s very nice to meet you both," he tells Henry, the corner of his mouth ticking up in amusement, and Emma absolutely does not shift in place at a sudden rush of heat the expression causes.

"Well, hey, if you’re not too busy playing white knight for the rest of the neighborhood, maybe we could buy you breakfast?" She doesn’t know why she asks - it’s what people do when they're neighborly, right? 

His eyes twinkle a bit as he takes her in again. “I was actually planning on making waffles. I’ve enough batter in the fridge to feed an army, if you and Henry are interested.”

"Then I owe you _two_ neighborly favors,” she says, her mouth getting away from her head, and her face heats as something goes dark in his gaze, the curve of his lips turning wicked. He tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek as he smirks at her, his head tilting down while he holds her gaze steady. 

"Mom and I _love_ waffles!” Emma has never been more happy to have an outspoken son then when Killian’s eyes dart toward Henry, the challenging look on his face disappearing. 

"Excellent. And how are you with a waffle iron, young sir?"

Henry’s eyes light up, and Emma resigns herself to a delightfully awkward early breakfast with her new, unfairly attractive neighbor.

———

Henry burns three waffles before he gets the hang of the waffle iron, and then wanders off in childish delight when he notices the terrarium in the corner of the living room before he’s even thought to start another one. 

Killian smiles fondly at Henry as the boy asks ever-so-politely to hold the pet rat, shooting his mother a questioning look before giving the go ahead.

"Just be careful lad. He’s had all his shots, but Smee can be a bit of a biter, when he’s nervous."

Henry nods excitedly and takes care to be gentle as he pulls off the lid, and Killian turns to his unoccupied guest.

She’s more beautiful than he’d originally thought - he’d caught sight of her over the course of the last few weeks, ordering movers around and lugging boxes twice her size through the front door of the house that’s been vacant longer than he can remember; long blonde hair pulled away from her face and the crinkle of a smile as she called out to her son, he’d been intrigued and curious to meet the woman, When he’d inquired about the family that had just moved in, her next door neighbor David had given him a very stern look as he told Killian what a _nice_ , _sweet_ woman Emma Swan was.

He may have been a bit too quick to question the presence of a husband, if the stern warning in David’s eyes was anything to go by.

Here, in the soft morning light as she unwinds the scarf from around her neck and comments on the thoroughness of his nautical themed decorations, he feels woefully unprepared for the long line of her neck as it meets her shoulder, for the curve of her jawline and the brush of her hair as it falls across her back, for the glittering amusement in bright green eyes.

Bloody hell. 

He hasn’t felt anything close to this since Milah - it’s been ten years, and though he’s been far from lonely in the time since, his friends have all begun to mock him for his complete inability to maintain a relationship, and suddenly, staring (not too fiercely, he hopes) at this woman he feels the realm of eternal possibility open up before him once again.

"Seriously, you have a pet rat named Smee? You really do take this high seas thing very seriously."

He bites his lip as he darts his gaze back toward the batter in his hand, trying to control the color rising in his cheeks as he realizes he’s poured half the ladle onto the countertop, instead of the waffle iron. 

"My brother and I were obsessed with Peter Pan as children. I suppose it just stuck."

"Oh god, there’s two of you?" There’s something in her voice that tinges on desperation that he doesn’t quite understand, and he tries to shoot her a reassuring smile as he closes the iron and turns back to look at her.

"My brother passed years ago."

It’s far too early in the morning for revelations such as that, but she’d asked, and there’s no real reason to lie about such things. She looks embarrassed and guilty and all he really wants to do is smooth his fingers over the lines etched into her brow. 

"Oh god, I’m sorry."

"It was a long time ago," he tells her instead, fingers clenched into a fist so as not to reach out and touch her, and she nods, carefully, like she understands the sentiment. She has that look about her - he can spot the look of loss in her own eyes, and wonders at it, but he leaves it. Another day, perhaps. Once he’s managed to learn more than her name and her preference for syrups.

(Boysenberry, he later finds to his absolute delight, as Henry grimaces and Emma Swan smiles at him across the table, pouring half the jug over her slightly-too-crispy waffles and teasing him for the anchors embossed onto his coffee mugs.)

(Their fingers brush as she passes him the syrup, and the jolt that shoots up his arm could be easily ignored, if not for the knowing look Emma’s son sends him a moment later.)

Henry and Emma carry conversation long past the point he usually runs out of things to say, and it’s not until almost noon that Killian reluctantly walks them home (“It’s just around the corner, I think we’ll be okay.” “You never know when they’ll be scoundrels about, Swan.” “I can hold my own against a few scoundrels, thank you very much.”)

He flops on the couch when he gets home, shooting Smee a look through the glass, his thoughts already swirling with ideas on how to see Swan and her son again.

“Well that’s terribly inconvenient,” he tells the rat, who scuffs his paw against the walls of the terrarium before returning to his spinning wheel.

  
———

Sunday morning breakfast becomes a thing.

Emma doesn’t exactly know how. All she knows is the next Sunday morning she opens her door to find Killian preparing to knock, and when Henry shoves her aside a moment later to squeal about the sled tucked under Killian’s arm, Emma tries not to think about the way her heart jumps in her chest at the thought of him remembering such a small, inconsequential thing her son had mentioned the previous week. She invites him in without a second thought, and only realizes about halfway through breakfast that she’s still in a threadbare tee-shirt and her Snow White pajama bottoms.

She has to give the man credit (as she excuses herself to the restroom in the middle of a bite of cereal and rushes to her room to throw a sweater over her head) - his eyes don’t stray from her face the whole time, and not once does he make the lewd comment that must be on the tip of his tongue. 

After that it sort of just becomes routine - they switch off cooking breakfast every week, eventually dropping any pretense that Sunday mornings are for anything other than cartoons and pajamas. Every once in a while she’ll get called in to work for some emergency David and Graham can’t handle on their own, and Henry will spend the day with Killian, making model ships and doing manly things they refuse to tell her about later that night, and when she does get home Killian will always, always insist on cooking her dinner. “It’s tradition for us to share a Sunday meal together, Swan. You can’t break tradition.” and he’ll use those damn puppy eyes of his, and he’ll nudge Henry into agreement, and somehow, despite Emma’s very best attempts not to be wooed by his over-the-top _everything_ , she always says yes.

David mentions it casually the first time Graham tries to ask her out - “Hey, don’t you and Killian usually have a thing, on Sundays?” - and while she’s grateful for the out, it starts her thinking.

It’s been three months since she moved to Storybrooke, and out of all the people she’s met in that time she spends more time with Killian than anyone but Henry. She’s told him things under the guise of lazy Sunday small talk that she’s not sure she’s ever told anyone before, and learned more about him than she knows about anyone except maybe her own son She’s not exactly sure how to explain what it is they are to each other - he’s a friend, kind and caring and always there to lend an ear, and he’s a neighbor, always doing…neighborly things, and yeah, there’s a lot of tension there that nothing but a good roll in the sheets is ever going to get rid of, but he hasn’t made a single overture in that direction and Emma…

Isn’t sure she wants him to.

Because she’s got a short supply of friends, and an even shorter supply of people she trusts, and fucking Killian into her mattress, while certainly a tempting idea, is absolutely certain to make things impossible. She doesn’t date, and she definitely doesn’t do friends with benefits, and god, what if it sucked?

Or worse: _What if it was great?_

When August asks her out a week later, while she and Henry are heading to the bus stop, she doesn’t let herself think too hard about the look of betrayal on her son’s face when she says yes.

———

"You’re dumb," Henry says when Killian opens the door, and he’s long past the point of being surprised that they boy just ducks under his outstretched arm and trails into the living room, tossing himself backward onto Killian’s couch.

"Pardon? And does your mother know you’re here?"

He shuts the door behind him to follow Henry, feeling more than a little unnerved by the way he crosses his arms over his chest and glares at Killian. “Mom thinks I’m home, and she told me not to go out, but this is an emergency and you and her are both dumb.”

"What sort of emergency are we speaking of? A legitimate ‘the house is on fire’ emergency or a ‘the TV isn’t working and I need to watch yours’ emergency."

"It’s a ‘mom is on a date and it’s not with you, idiot’ emergency."

Killian goes silent for a beat, taking in Henry’s stern glare and trying to keep his face from displaying the feeling of his stomach dropping. “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

Henry groans, throwing in an eyeroll for good measure. “Look, I spent three months vetting you, okay. You like my mom, and she likes you, and you’re not a weirdo or a creep, and now everything is ruined.”

"Vetti- Excuse me?"

“ _Ruined_ ,” Henry repeats, arms and eyes both wide.

"You’re being a bit dramatic, aren’t you?" Killian is quite proud of how level a head he’s keeping in the face of Henry’s revelations - one, that Swan is out with someone else, and two, that she…likes him? Not that he’s completely thrown for a loop on the second part, she’s certainly never shied away from the flirting, but he’d thought…well, she’d made it pretty clear she wasn’t interested in anything more serious than weekly neighborly meals. (He doesn’t count the ones she’d cooked him after he’d fixed her wobbly porch rail, or taught Henry how to spackle the hole he’d made in the drywall with a paintball gun, or the time he’d spent the day hanging curtains for her.)

"I’m the teenage son of a no nonsense single mom. It’s like, my job."

"Henry, I like your mother, I do, but she and I…"

"Are dumb, and lonely, and perfect for each other, and I did not spend the last three months breaking things so that she could go out with creepy writer dude with the motorcycle."

Killian swallows heavily as he thinks of Emma spending any time with the man in question. “I could get a motorcycle.”

He means it (mostly) in jest, but Henry doesn’t seem to find any amusement in the situation. He groans again, throwing his body forward and off the couch, and storms past Killian in a fit, only stopping at the door to point an accusing finger. “Fix this,” he says, yanking on the door handle. “I am not dealing with creepy writer dude as a stepdad.”

The door slams shut behind him, and Killian takes a long moment to stare at the thing before Henry’s words take full effect.

That sneaky little _bastard_.

———

She doesn’t kiss August goodnight at the door. Which mostly boils down to him not walking her to the door, and at least they can both agree that it was a terrible date. Whatever spark of flirty attraction had been there had died a really quick death when they realized they had nothing in common, and Emma had spent most of the date babbling about Henry and Killian while August tapped out a rhythm against the table. The check hadn’t come soon enough.

She’s pretty much screwed, is the thing, and this date is all it really took for her to understand that. She likes Killian. A lot. And before she’d thought that maybe she could ignore it, maybe she could move on and just stay friends with him, maybe she could keep him in her life without having to risk her heart in the process, but the thing is…

The thing is she’s pretty sure she started risking it a while ago, and now she doesn’t know what to do about it.

She slides the key into the lock and slips quietly through the door, letting it click closed behind her without turning on the lights. Henry should at least be in bed right now, if not asleep, and she moves through the house on tiptoes, only to let out a bloodcurdling shriek when the light in the living room clicks on.

Henry is sitting on the couch, an arm crossed over his chest as he stares her down.

"Jesus Christ, kid, what the hell?"

"Remember how I told you the porch railing was wobbly, and I accidentally shot my paintgun inside, and the stove door tried to kill me?"

"…Henry, why aren’t you in bed?"

"Mom. Do you remember those things."

"Of course I do."

"I lied. About all of them. I took a hammer to the porch while you were at work. And I threw a basketball at the wall. And I stood on the stove door until it broke."

"Henry, what -."

"Also I broke the garage door."

She’s trying very hard to keep a level head about all of this, but between confusion and anger, anger is quickly winning out. She has no idea why Henry would admit to any of this, but if he’s willing to admit it, it means he did them for a reason.

A reason like…Killian constantly coming to her rescue. 

"The garage door isn’t broken."

"Yep. Totally broken."

"Henry, I swear to god if you aren’t about to apologize profusely and explain what you’re talking about, you’re going to be grounded until I die."

He shifts, leaning forward, hands steepled below his chin. “You and Killian were never gonna go out on a date unless I took matters into my own hands.”

"Henry, Killian and I aren’t…"

"Dating? Sure. You had dinner together three times last week. Without me. Also Killian looked like I kicked a puppy when I told him you were out on a date, so…"

"You _what_?”

Henry doesn’t even look slightly embarrassed, or worried that she looks ready to snap and take away his video games, which is _so_ happening - he just looks smug.

"Yeah, it looked kinda like that."

———

Sunday morning dawns bright and clear, and when Emma peeks outside it’s to see that it’s snowed overnight.

And that’s when Emma realizes she still never bought that fucking shovel. 

She feels like a total asshole, because in the three months she’s known Killian he’s cleared her walk every single time it’s so much as dusted snow, and now that she’s aware of exactly how much Henry (and herself, Jesus) have taken advantage of that, she feels like shit.

Henry is still sleeping when she digs her car out of the snow and heads to the store, and she spends the whole drive over and most of the way back trying to convince herself that she’ll be totally fine without Killian in her life.

She’ll be fine without his stupid model ships, and his ridiculous innuendo, and his gruff, clear laughter, and the way he smiles at her over Henry’s head when he thinks she isn’t looking. She’ll be fine without his hip pressed to hers as they watch Disney movies and she’ll be fine without the spark of electricity that happens every time they so much as touch hands.

And she realizes she _will_ be fine.

But she doesn’t want to be.

So when she pulls into the driveway to see that the snow has all been shoveled away, she feels both relief and guilt.

She swings the door open with a kind of giddy eagerness, wondering if Henry has started on breakfast yet, only to find Henry dusting snow off his shoulders as he kicks his boots under the bench set next to the front door. “Hey,” she says, and Henry grunts. 

"I borrowed David’s shovel," he tells her, and then turns his back to stomp up the stairs.

Well.

Shit.

———

Killian spends the day forcing himself not to check on Emma and Henry. He’s sure they can manage for themselves - he’s sure they don’t need him barging in on their lives like an overeager puppy. In fact he does such a good job of ignoring the outside world that when he gets the call from Regina that night, reprimanding him for the snow he still hasn’t cleared, he does little more than mutter obscenities just beyond her hearing while he promises to have it taken care of.

"Stop moping and grow a pair, Jones," is what she says to finish off the conversation, and she hangs up before he can protest. Bloody wench knows everything that happens in this damn town. It’s eerie. 

He throws on a hat and slips into his boots, wondering idly what he’d ever done before Swan and her son had whirled into his life, and then casts the thought aside angrily. He’d been a sad sack before them, and he’s still a sad sack now.

When he swings the door open he nearly jumps back in surprise at seeing Emma there, one hand raised to knock, the other clutching a bottle of wine.

"Hi," she says, and Killian sighs.

"Hello, love," he responds, and then immediately regrets ever adding that to the list of nicknames he has for her. He eyes her carefully, watching her gaze dart behind him to the lone light on in the living room, and then to the snow she’d had to wade through to get to his door. "How can I help you?"

"I just…wanted to apologize." She clenches her jaw, watching his face for any reaction. "For Henry. He gets these ideas, in his head, and they sound great to him, but he…doesn’t…" Her sigh slices through the cold air. "I’m really sorry, Killian."

And that’s that, then. Whatever Henry thinks is going on between the two of them, he’d obviously been off the mark.

"It’s fine," he tells her, waving off the apology and hoping he doesn’t sound too much like he’s having his heart ripped out. "He’s a good lad, really. Just wants you to be happy."

"Right." They stand in silence for a beat, until Emma finally gestures with the wine bottle. "Anyway, I just wanted to bring this by and say thank you, and…anyway."

"And I’ve got to…" Holding up the shovel in his hand, he forces a grin, and Swan blinks at him before nodding. 

"Yeah, of course. I’ll just…leave this here and get out of your hair." He sucks in a deep breath as she slides past him to set the wine bottle down on the entryway table, and her gaze cuts to his, eyes darting across his face as she registers how close she is to him. "Unless… I don’t have to go."

Killian swallows, and her eyes follow the line of his throat before they turn back to his face. 

He doesn’t give himself time to think about it - just tosses the shovel off to the side and presses forward, his lips capturing hers, and he feels a bit lightheaded when she practically melts into him, one arm curling around his back as the other slides up his arm - he tilts his head and the change of angle makes her gasp, her tongue sliding along his lips as he digs a hand into her hair - her nose is cold against his cheek, and he wants desperately to yank the gloves off her hands and feel her fingers against his skin, but he can’t break the kiss, not yet, not without knowing for sure he’s going to have this chance again.

Her laughter bubbles against his mouth a long (long) moment later, and he breaks his hold on her lips to press his forehead into hers, eyes blinking open to catch her gaze. She’s smiling (that’s a good sign, right?), her gloved fingers toying with the collar of his shirt, and she bumps his nose with hers as she leans up to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Hey there, neighbor," she says, and Killian bites his lip to keep from laughing. "So, does this mean you accept my apology?"

"Hardly," he tells her. "I’m accepting the wine as payment for all the favors you owe me. I have something else in mind for an apology."

Her brow quirks in amusement, and she shivers against him - they’ve left the door wide open this whole time. “Oh really?”

"Have dinner with me."

"We have dinner all the time."

"Fine, then. Have a dinner _date_ with me, Swan, and I’ll consider your apology.”

She snorts out a laugh. “I’m sorry, _consider_?”

"Well, you’ve got that awful heathen child of yours to thank for my lack of full acceptance."

Her laughter is bright and clear as she pulls away from him, kicking at the snow shovel laying at their feet, and she smiles at him as she moves to close his front door. 

"Fine. But only if you let me cook."

He chuffs out a laugh of his own. “Not bloody likely. I want to date you, Swan, not be poisoned by you.”

He catches the arm she swings out to smack him, and drags her back into him, pressing a soft kiss to her nose that makes her smile. 

"You can open the wine, neighbor."

———

Emma blinks open her eyes to find her son grinning smugly at her with Killian's spare key in his hand, and she startles to full wakefulness, nearly tumbling off the edge of the couch she and Killian had fallen asleep on the night before. Only the arm tucked around her waist keeps her from falling, and she bats at Killian as he presses his nose into the back of her neck. “Wassit?” he mutters, throwing a leg over her hip, and oh god, Henry just looks more smug by the minute.

"Henry, what are you -."

"I’m going to school. I just wanted to say bye. Also I told you so."

And before she can squeeze out of Killian’s grasp he’s out the door again, and Emma can do nothing more than sigh as Killian blinks awake behind her. 

"Heathen, I tell you," he mutters against her shoulder, and Emma can’t bite back the smile. "I can’t fault his plan though. It certainly worked out just fine for everyone involved."

"Except Regina, who is probably going to kill you when she sees the state of your sidewalk."

Emma laughs when he leaps from the couch towards the front door, tugging on boots as he curses under his breath, and pauses in her stretches when the door opens and then closes, the clunk of Killian’s boots turning back towards the living room.

She turns her gaze up to meet his as he bends over her. “Perhaps a bit less of a heathen than we thought,” he tells her. “Henry seems to have shoveled while we slept.”

Emma smiles wide and happy as she reaches for the edge of his shirt, tugging him down to her lips once more.


End file.
